My feeling on the poems is that they are a cohesive set, yet each has its own identity. How much time the reader spends with each is up to them, but they might spend hours, or seconds, with each or with all. How rare is a clear control of the pansemic aesthetic? Essentially it seems as though Federico’s poems are often the evocation of a structure evading itself, an exact match to what Mingus declared his piece was about – a ten minute tone poem. Certainly in terms of actual construction Federico is also providing a score, a rescoring of that which been unscored. Here is metaphorical language without semantics. Ambiguous detail activating the poetic. The work is remarkable precisely because it works in a graceful, familiar space to do often stark and unfamiliar things. Like jazz that absorbs sound. This feels to me a faithful act towards listening and the intention towards possibility and inspiration. The roll, the smudge, the dead signature. The cut in the scrawl. The squig. The line, cards and bled ink. Sounds on paper.